Page 81 of A Rising Hope

“We’ll find a way,” she whispered to her unborn babe. “Just you and me against the world.” She smiled, though this time her eyes were weary, her light dulled, but an ember of hope fought against it all.

I wanted to call out to her. I wanted to tell her, it’d be okay. But Insanaria held me tighter.

“Watch the truth of the world.”

The shadows swirled. A blink and I watched as she waddled down a cobbled street, belly heavy and large. Her hands were torn and blistered, but she held her chin high.

“No Creator freak will work in my home!” A woman shouted after her. But the young woman didn’t look back.

“Just you and me against the world,” she whispered to the unborn child once more, forcing a smile onto her perfect lips to fight the despair clawing at her soul.

The shadows moved again and again as I watched her struggle and beg to find shelter, to find help, only to be left alone in the streets of Svitar Slums.

Shadows moved once more.

This time, we watched as the young girl labored in a dirty alley amid the whores and the drunks, confining her agony filled cries to lowered jagged breaths, afraid lest the noise attract too much attention. I reached for her, to comfort her, but Insanaria held me back.

“No, see the world for what it truly is.”

A small child was born.

The young mother full of relief as she held the babe closer.

I didn’t hold back the tears now, drowned in my sorrow as I saw the mother realize that her baby didn’t breathe. The lungs stayed still.

My knees buckled, and I cried, helplessly listening as the mother screamed in horror, as she begged those around her for help. But nobody moved. Nobody helped.

No, the strangers passed only occasionally, giving a judging glance towards the destroyed mother as she crawled sobbing, pleading so desperately for help.

And yet no help came.

So we watched her cradle the child as day turned into night and then into day again; she cried each minute and each hour, at first begging the gods and the universe and then simply mourning as her world irrevocably tore to before and after.

We watched as she sang quiet lullabies. Pale and weak, she sang each word, whispering her quiet dreams, sweetlymurmuring every might-have-beens, quietly lulling the child to an endless sleep. And as she sang, where flowers once flourished, thorns grew. Each drop of her tears, filled with such heartbroken despair, turned the vines poisonous.

And only the shadows of the alley were there to comfort her.

My body trembled, and I couldn’t stop the tears. I bit my cheek, the taste of iron on my tongue, but that was no help in the face of the all-consuming grief.

The shadows switched again. A new memory played, and I watched.

I didn’t listen to the words that were said. Couldn’t listen, as the echoes of the young mother’s fragmented screams still rang within me.

The shadows switched again.

This time, the young woman was grown up, only a few years older than me. A silver streak in her deep chestnut hair, standing out starkly against her beauty. She stood in front of four women, a council of some sort, begging. Each one of them shaking their heads, denying her plea to bring the child back, to call upon the gods.

But when she had asked for justice, no one answered.

The shadows swirled, the memories rolled one by one as I watched the woman get betrayed again by those she had trusted, by her friends and her followers.

Hated. Misunderstood. Abandoned. Only darkness to comfort her when everyone had turned away.

The shadows moved again.

It was just me and Insanaria now standing in a quiet room—a nursery, I realized, as I saw a small crib covered with overgrown black thorns. Pink wooden walls were painted with beautiful flowers, but the colors were dull and faded, threads on the round rug worn-out. Insanaria stepped outside the shadows towards the glass crib shaped like a casket.

She held her hand up, and the thorns moved, exposing the little body within.

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